


You Tellin' Me You're Scared of Brooklyn?

by namesfey



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: I Don't Even Know, Post-Canon, other newsies are in here too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-03-06 15:46:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13414476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/namesfey/pseuds/namesfey
Summary: "I ain't scared of no turf!""Okay.""But that Spot Conlon gets me a little jittery."





	1. Prologue

All children in Brooklyn knew the same two rules:

Don’t go into the streets alone  
Don’t go into the streets at night

Patrick was breaking both. His mother was going to have a cow.

But how could a child of nine years resist the streets shimmering with fresh snow? The simple answer is that the child couldn’t.

It was ten o’clock on a winter night, and Patrick was running up and down the streets, delighting in the crunch that the snow provided and the clouds of air that escaped him, ignoring his reddened fingers from lack of gloves, his wetted feet from lack of proper footwear, his frozen body from lack of heat.

It was ten-thirty on a winter night, and Patrick was sitting underneath a streetlamp across the street from his home. Across the street and three floors down from the tenement that held the one-room apartment meant for two, maybe three, but holding six, maybe seven. The room that held a mother that was more than a little overbearing and four, maybe five other strangers that Patrick didn’t want to get to know, not matter how much his mother wanted him to.

It was ten-thirty-five on a winter night when a stumbling drunk spotted a boy sitting outside of his building, his first instinct to send the pesky scrounger skittering away. Not entirely in his right mind, the man opened the door, shouting, “What are you doin’ there, boy?”

Patrick immediately jumped to his feet when he heard the man’s voice from behind him. Hastily brushing the snow from his pants and turning, he tried his best to form coherent words. “I - I - s-s-sorry, m-mister, uh - um - I -”

“Spit it out boy, or scram!” shouted the man again, venturing outside of the confines of the front door into the frigid air toward Patrick.

Patrick wished he could spit it out. He wished he could scram. But it was like the temperature froze his body as well as the snow on the ground. All Patrick could do was stare as the giant of a man neared him step-by-stumbling-step. He got so close that Patrick could smell the alcohol on the man’s visible breath.

“What are you still doin’ here, boy?” growled the man, quieter than before, but no less menacing. “Are you deaf or somethin’? Get outta my street you little miscreant!”

Patrick didn’t think - he just ran. Ran from the man, ran from the street, ran from his home. His stride was sloppy and his feet constantly slipped due to the ice that coated the ground. The glint from the streetlights on the snow that was once beautiful only reminded Patrick of the eyes of the man that glowed with an unknown hatred.

All children in Brooklyn knew the same two rules, and Patrick finally understood why.

*****

Patrick’s lungs burned and his eyes were blurred with tears that he was trying his best to keep from falling. When his foot slipped for the umpteenth time, Patrick let himself fall face-first to the ground, no longer possessing the energy to persist.

 _Miscreant?_ It was a word one of the tenement-sharers would use when he spotted rats or birds or something general inconvenienced him. It was a word Patrick knew wasn't a compliment. _I'm your neighbor. Ain’t neighbors supposed to help each other? To be nice to each other?_

Patrick looked around him - nothing was familiar. The buildings had different windows and the streets had different names and the people in the homes made different sounds and everything was different, different _different_ and Patrick couldn’t hold back his hot tears and wracking sobs and fear of never finding home.

Through his sobs Patrick heard the sounds of nearing footsteps _crunch crunch_ ing in the snow. Believing the steps to belong to the drunken man, and fearing for his nine-year-old life, Patrick flipped onto his back, raising his hands to his face as if it would help, wailing, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, _I’m so sorry_.”

“What’s there to be sorry about? You didn’t do nothin’ to me.”

Shock caused Patrick to calm down enough to peek out behind his hands. Before him stood a boy around his age, hair black as the night sky with eyes to match. Patrick swore he saw a star twinkling in one of them.

“You okay, kid? What are you doin’ out here at night?”

Patrick couldn’t move, once again frozen to the spot. His eyes were still wet and his breathing still ragged and heavy, but not one limb moved.

The boy sat down next to where Patrick still laid. “Listen, I expect your mama told you the rules every mama tells their kid, so I just wanna know if you need help getting back.”

“I…” Patrick whispered, slowly rising to a sitting position, “I don’t know where I am.” He looked around at the unfamiliar houses. “What street is this?”

“Kent Avenue,” said the boy, his eyebrows furrowing. “Where do you live?”

“Dean Street.”

“That’s near Prospect Park, yeah?” Patrick nodded. “But that’s nearly half an hour’s walk!” said the boy, clearly blown away. “What are you doing so far away?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” mumbled Patrick, casting his eyes down at his fidgeting hands to hide his embarrassment.

“Well, then, we might as well start,” said the boy, rising.

“Start what?” asked Patrick, still sitting on the cold pavement.

“Gettin’ you back home,” the boy answered.

*****

“Why are _you_ out here by yourself?” Patrick asked.

“Ma sent me out. She does that sometimes, when she’s angry or stressed,” answered the boy, putting his hands in his pockets, eyes glued to the ground.

“But didn’t she tell you the rules?”

“Oh, sure. That don’t mean she don’t break them, though.”

“What about your dad?”

“What about _yours_?”

That was answer enough for the both of them.

*****

When they finally reached Dean Street, the boy stopped. “Well, here we are. I better head back, see if Ma’s gonna let me back in.”

Patrick looked at the building where the drunk man came from, and looked at the boy, eyes full of fear. “Could you walk me to my building’s door, please?” The question came out quieter than Patrick would have liked.

The boy smiled a little. “You scared of walkin’ in the streets Brooklyn? Ain’t this the fiercest turf?”

“I didn’t choose to live here,” Patrick countered. “ ‘Sides, I ain’t afraid of the streets,” he looked at the building again, “just the people who live in them.”

“Not me though, huh?” said the boy.

“Not if you take me back to my door,” answered Patrick.

So Patrick and the boy walked the extra twenty yards to Patrick’s tenement. Patrick opened the door and stepped inside. Before he closed the door, though, he said, “Thank you for helping me. You pretty much saved me life.”

The boy smiled again. “Nah, it was nothin’. Made my night a little more interestin’, though.”

“I guess I’ll see ya later, then?”

“I you keep cryin’ in a pile on the ground on Kent, then sure.” It was Patrick’s turn to smile. “See ya - uh, what’s your name?”

“Patrick. What’s yours?”

“Sean.”

“See ya later Sean.”

“Bye, Patrick.”

Patrick watched as Sean strode back into the snow and the stars.

*****

Patrick’s mother never found out about his encounter with the drunk man or Sean, so she was more than a little confused to find a black-haired boy at the threshold of her building one day asking for her son.

“Who are you?” she asked, flustered.

“I’m Sean,” Sean answered, because he was.

“And,” she continued, “how do you know Patrick?”

“We met the other day - or other night, rather. He didn’t say anything about it?”

Patrick’s mother was now beyond flustered. “No, he didn’t. Excuse me.” She raced back up the stairs, leaving the door open for Sean to witness it. He heard shouting coming from some floors up, but waited patiently below. Sean was inspecting the wallpaper of the entry’s interior when Patrick’s mother whirled back down the staircase, this time with Patrick in tow, stopping at the threshold yet again.

“Patrick,” she said, glaring daggers into her own boy, her hand tight on his wrist, “this boy says you met the other night. The other _night_ , Patrick. Do you know this boy?" Patrick nodded numbly. "So just exactly when were you going to tell me you snuck out?”

Patrick tried forming words, but nothing coherent came out. It was like he was facing the drunk man all over again.

“What were you planning on doing?” Patrick’s mother said, daggers now directed at Sean.

“Just go to Prospect, ma’am. For a little bit.” Sean squirmed under her gaze. Sure, his mom kicked him out sometimes, but Sean couldn’t imagine living with a mother like Patrick’s.

“And your mother lets you roam about the streets on your own? Where do you live?”

“Hall Street, ma’am. And… sometimes, I guess.”

Patrick’s mother seemed to be debating whether or not she would let her son leave her sight.

“It’s fine ma’am, really, I can come back another time.”

She seemed to make up her mind. “I think you should leave my son alone. There’s no reason he should be out at night, and I don’t need you around influencing him.”

Sean managed a “yes, ma’am” before the tenement door was slammed in his face. He put his ear to the door and managed to hear Patrick’s mother say, “You will not leave this building without me again, you hear? That boy is made of trouble. What kind of mother would kick her son out of his own home if there wasn’t something wrong with him? You will stay in the room, Patrick, and that’s final.”

Sean took two steps back. It was in that moment that he decided he would act just as Patrick’s mother thought he did. Patrick was going to leave the house again.

*****

The sun was well under the horizon, and Sean had gathered a pile of small rocks.

After Patrick’s mother had impolitely closed the door on him, Sean had spotted Patrick in the third story window. Sean figured he would toss rocks at his window until Patrick opened the window and heard Sean’s idea. It was a flawless plan.

That is, it would be if someone who wasn’t Patrick responded to the fourth rock Sean threw. Instead of the boy, a man with a full moustache stuck his head out of the window.

“You, boy,” called Moustache Man. “Get outta here ‘fore I call someone.”

“Shh!” Sean responded. “Can you wake up Patrick and tell him to meet me down here?”

“I don’t know, his mama explicitly told him no.”

“She didn’t say you couldn’t tell him to, though, yeah?”

The man scratched his head in thought. “I guess not. I send him down right quick. I hope you can handle Frannie’s wrath, boy, because you got a storm comin’.”

The man stuck his head back inside the room. Sean hoped Moustache Man was quiet about it, whatever he was doing.

*****

Patrick stuck his head out of the same window the Moustache Man did, spotting Sean kicking at the ground.

“What is it, Sean?”

Sean looked up, his face instantly brightening. “I said I was gonna take you to Prospect, and I am. Let’s go.”

“No, Sean, I can’t. Didn’t you hear Mama?”

“Haven’t you heard of living a little?”

"Haven't you heard of listenin' to your mama?" Patrick looked behind him into the room and back back to the boy below, pausing to think about what he would get into, his hands absentmindedly tapping on the windowsill all the while. “I dunno, Sean. Mama wouldn’t be too happy if she finds out.”

“What makes you think she’ll find out?”

“ _Sean, I’m serious_.”

“And you think I’m not?”

“But… it’s nighttime.”

“Yeah, so you’ll only be breakin’ one of the rules that apparently every kid needs to follow in this stupid city. C’mon Pat, time’s a-wastin’.”

_Mama said no. Mama said no. Mama said no._

__

__

_Sorry again, Mama._

Despite whatever his mama told him that morning, Patrick closed the window in favor of putting on his shoes and grabbing his frayed scarf, quietly making his way outside.

Once Patrick stepped out and closed the door, he said, “It’s Patrick.”

“What?” asked Sean, already starting the walk to the park.

“You called me Pat,” said Patrick, now walking alongside Sean. “It’s Patrick.”

*****

Prospect Park looked different at night. Shadows danced in different areas. The lake reflected the half-moon in a way that made the depths seem unearthly. The wind in the trees whispered like specters.

The boys, however, paid no mind to these differences. They tried to climb low-branched trees and raced along the pathways and wondered why sculptors needed to make the female statues naked. They even pet a stray dog.

“I’m gonna name her Hattie,” said Sean, running his hand along the dog’s spotted fur.

“How do you know it’s a girl?” asked Patrick.

“All pretty dogs are girls.”

“Who told you that?”

“God.”

“Really?”

“No, stupid. Just logic.”

“That’s stupid logic. Might as well be a boy. Name him somethin’ practical. Like… Spot.”

“Now _that_ is stupid logic.”

“There’s nothin’ _more_ logical, Sean! Look, he even responds to it.”

“She.”

“Shut up,” said Patrick, walking a little ways away before clapping his hands and calling, “Here, Spot!” The dog instantly rose from where he lay next to Sean and pattered over to Patrick. Patrick looked at Sean with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

“Fine, we’ll call her Spot.”

“Him.”

“Shut up, Patrick, you already won.”

*****

The night ended with the boys saying goodbye, but Sean promising that he’d come back. Patrick figured he meant come back during the night, but day after day Sean showed up in the morning asking if Patrick could play. Frannie stopped answering the door after day four.

She gave in on day nine.

*****

On a particularly warm day there were vendors lining the Prospect walkways. One way or another, Sean had accumulated two bags of sunflower seeds.

“You’re devouring those, aren’t ya?” said Sean, commenting on how Patrick was eating the seeds, feeding most of his own to Spot who the boys at this point assumed lived in the park.

“What?” said Patrick, mouth full of seeds. “They’re my favorite.”

“You’re like a right finch, you are.”

“A finch?”

“Yeah, one of them birds that like eating seeds.”

“Well if I’m a finch, you’re a -” Patrick looked around him for the nearest bird. “You’re a pigeon!”

“A _pigeon_? Really, Patrick?”

“Yeah,” said Patrick through giggles.

“Please tell me why.”

“You -” Patrick tried to stop the giggles coming out of him. “You both look funny.”

*****

“I was thinkin’ of bein’ a newsboy,” said Sean.

“Why?”

“Ma needs the extra money - say, you should be one too!”

Patrick looked uncertain. “I dunno, Sean. I don’t think Mama would want me to be with a bunch of strangers.”

“I bet she’d want the extra coins.”

*****

Turns out Frannie _did_ want the extra coins, much to Patrick’s surprise. It seemed to help that he added that he’d be with Sean. Even if Frannie didn’t exactly enjoy her son hanging out with the boy, it was better than nothing.

*****

Bright and early the next morning the two boys knocked on the door of the Brooklyn Lodging House. They were met with a boy of some older age, who asked, “Can I help you?”

Sean spoke for them. “We wanted to be newsies.”

“Come inside,” the boy said, stepping aside to let the two in. When they were both well inside the House the boy called out, “Jest! There’s some kids here that wanna speak with you!”

Feet were heard stomping down the stairs. The boy that belonged to those stomps appeared, blonde-haired and wild-eyed. “Hiya, boys, I’m Jest. What can I do ya for?”

Sean spoke again. Patrick was glad, because since the moment he left his house he had been all nerves and no boy. “We want to be newsies.”

“Yeah?” said Jest. “And who’s ‘we’?”

“Me and Patrick.”

“You and Patrick? Well, we gotta change those names, but sure, we’ve got room for two more. Just promise me one thing, you and Patrick.”

Sean nodded. Patrick nodded a little after that when he realized what was going on.

“You gotta be tough in Brooklyn. Stand your ground, do what you’re paid to do, and you’ll come home with coins jinglin’ in you’re pockets fine. Square?”

“Square,” said Sean.

Jest looked at Patrick, who still hadn’t answered. “We square, Patrick?”

Sean nudged Patrick, who jumped at the touch, but nonetheless stammered out a “square”.

“Right, then, before we leave, know that we don’t got much of Patricks and such runnin’ ‘round here. Makes things a little complicated. Anythin’ else you go by, to make things easier? It's fine if ya don't.”

Patrick’s mind and body finally caught up, and he burst into a laughing fit. “Sean - Sean goes by -” he had to stop and laugh. Sean looked at him in annoyance. Jest looked at his in confusion. “Sean goes by Pigeo -”

“Pidge,” Sean said, cutting Patrick off. “I go by Pidge. And he’s Finch.”

“Oooookaaay,” said Jest, still eyeing Patrick a little funny while Patrick let out his last giggles. “Pidge and Finch. Let’s start your first days as Brooklyn newsies. Newsies!” The last part was directed back up the stairs. “The papes ain’t gonna sell themselves!”

*****

Every day was the same, but Patrick - Finch - didn’t mind it one bit.

Every morning Pidge would meet him outside of Finch’s tenement and they would walk to the Lodging House. On days they were late they would meet the boys at the distribution gates. Each boy would pay a bit to a man called Sherwood who would give them the corresponding amount of papers. Finch and Pidge would then walk to a strip of the street initially assigned to them by Jest and they would sell until they couldn’t anymore. Sometimes they would walk back to the House and chat with the other newsies, but most of the time the two boys would take a stroll through Prospect to check up on Spot before Pidge dropped Finch back at his home. The same day would be just like the day before. Everything was simple, and the boys wouldn’t have it otherwise.

*****

It was in the year the boys turned ten. It was also the year that their simple life became complicated.

One morning instead of a smile from Finch, Pidge was greeted with eyes that reminded him of the first night he met Finch - glazed, red, damp.

“What’s wrong, Finch?”

Finch took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to collect himself, not daring to step beyond the threshold. “Mama said we’re moving.”

Pidge’s stomach dropped. “W-Where are you moving to?” Finch mumbled something incoherent. “Speak up, Finchy.”

“Manhattan.”

“But…” Pidge said, his face becoming whiter and whiter. “But that’s all the way across the bridge.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

“Mama said someone over there is willing to share a room with people for less than she’s payin’ over here. And she says it’s less violent with Brooklyn, which, I guess she’s right on that last part, but I don’t know why she picked now to do it, right when things were goin’ good, and -”

“Finchy! Calm down,” said Pidge. “When are ya moving?”

Finch tried to collect himself. “Bef-fore the week l-lets out.”

“Were you plannin’ on tellin’ Jest? Or Dandy? Or anyone ‘sides me?” Finch didn’t say anything, just swept the door back and forth. “ _Finch_.”

“I know, I know, I just can’t see the look on their faces when I tell them. I can’t do it, Pidge.”

“You still gonna sell?”

“No, I gotta help Mama pack up.”

“Oh, okay.” Pidge looked down at his shoes. “You think they tell their kids different rules over there in Manhattan?”

“Probably ‘Don’t go into Brooklyn and 'Always say thank you’,” said Finch, before he was engulfed in a hug by a stranger he had come to befriend.

“Please come back and see me once in a while,” whispered the known stranger.

“I’ll try,” responded the boy who would soon become one. He pulled back a little to look Pidge straight in the eye. “Say hi to Spot for me, will ya?”

The boy that had once had a star twinkling in his eye smiled once more. “‘Course I will. Who do you think else is gonna be my selling partner? People _love_ dogs.”

*****

When Finch moved to Manhattan, he figured he’d never meet Pidge again. And, in a way, he was right.


	2. Eight Years Later

Finch sat on his bed, the bottom of the bunk he shared with Elmer, teaching a group of the littles how to tie their shoes.

“Then you make two rabbit ears with the laces - one for each. There ya go, Buck! Georgie, wait - slow down, do it again, only one rabbit ear per lace. Good! Now twist them around each other -”

“Heya, Finch!”

Finch looked up from his teachings to see Racetrack Higgins at the door of the bedroom.

“Heya, Race. What’s up? I’m kinda in the middle of somethin’.”

“Me an’ some of the boys were gonna head out to Brooklyn for cards. Wanna come?”

“You already know the answer,” said Finch, turning away to continue helping the littles.

The simple truth is that Finch hadn’t returned to Brooklyn since he left, for one reason or another - and when he didn’t have a reason he made one up. The simpler truth is that every day he became more and more afraid of returning, fearing how much the borough had changed. How much Pidge had changed.

“Aw, c’mon, Finchy, you _never_ go.”

“It’s Finch. And, again,” Finch said, gesturing to the grouping of young newsies, “I’m in the middle of something.”

“If I help ya, will you go?”

But Race didn’t wait for an answer - he took three deliberate strides and huddled in the middle of the six littles, showing them how to twist the laces just so that they could tie their shoe in two seconds. Four minutes later, the six little newsies knew well how to tie their shoes, and Finch was both confused at the alternative way to tie, and jealous that Race didn’t show him how either.

“There, now you’re done. Let’s go.”

Finch exhaled in frustration. “ _Race_ , I’m not going with you guys. I haven’t before, and I’m not plannin’ on doin’ so any time soon.”

“Ain’t you from there, though? Don’t you wanna show us the ropes?”

“There ain’t any ropes that you haven’t seen, Racetrack Higgins.”

“Here: if you come this time, I won’t ask again.”

“Why’re you so intent on havin’ me go?”

Race just smiled. “You’s the only one who hasn’t gone yet.”

“I can’t be the only one.”

“Well, you are - and, yes, I’m counting the littles.”

Finch closed his eyes, arms crossed, fingers tapping on his arms, debating whether or not he would make the stupid decision.

“Fine.”

*****

“Is Finch really coming along?”

This was asked by a very eager Les Jacobs as a group of newsboys consisting of himself, Finch, Race, Jojo, and Henry began their trek from Manhattan to Brooklyn.

“I was forced, Les, honest,” responded Finch. “Is Davey not comin’?”

Jojo barked out a laugh. “Like Davey would go to Brooklyn on his own accord.”

_That makes two of us._

It had been about two months since the newsie strike had started and ended, and Les and his older brother Davey had stuck to the newsies like glue. Since school had started, the Jacobs boys weren’t seen as often during the weekdays, but after school and on weekends they seamlessly transformed into seasoned newsies, and the rest of them enjoyed their company.

“Well, does Davey know where we’re headed?”

“No…”

“ _Les_!” shouted the other boys.

“Hey, what he don’t know won’t hurt him! At least he knows I’m with you guys.”

*****

“Race says you’s from Brooklyn,” Les said to Finch as they crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. “Is that true?”

“Sure is,” said Finch, adjusting his cap.

“Why’d ya leave?”

“My mama saw the chance to live somewhere cheaper, so she took it,” said Finch, nervously clenching and unclenching his fists.

“Do you know any of the newsies here? Do you know Spot Conlon?”

“I haven’t been here since I was your age, Les, and I certainly don’t know Spot Conlon.”

“But you saw him at the rally, right?”

“Nah, missed him. I was in the middle of all of us, and I’m not that tall, and I hear he isn’t either. Didn’t add up right for me to see him, I guess.”

“Maybe you’ll see him today.”

“If what I hear about him is true, I don’t want to.”

*****

The closer the group of newsies got to the entrance to Brooklyn, the more agitated Finch became. It became so great that Finch started bouncing on the balls of his feet and shaking his hands, just to try to rid himself of his nervous energy.

“Finch, you okay?” Henry asked, eyeing him warily.

“How long did you say we were staying here?” Finch asked, wild-eyed, voice shaking a bit.

“Before the sun goes down,” Henry answered.

“Heya, Race, what’s your business?” asked a new voice belonging to a newsie with curly black hair and brown skin that stood at the end of the bridge.

“Comin’ for a game, Tapper, as usual,” said Race as the boys approached the end.

“Is it Wednesday already? Man, I lose track all the time.” Tapper spotted Finch at the back of the group looking everywhere and nowhere, bounces ceasing but hands still shaking. “What’s wrong with him?”

“What?” said Race, spinning to find the ball of nerves also known as Finch. “Oh, that’s Finch. He’s just a bit tense.”

“Why’d he come if he’s so jittery?”

“I made him come.”

“I don’t know why I’m so surprised. Max and them are at the docks.”

*****

When Tapper said “Max and them”, Finch figured he’d meant five or so kids. What he was not expecting was a hoard littering the docks like seagulls. Needless to say, Finch’s nerves hadn’t backed down.

Seeing as he was forced to be there, and he didn’t have a hankering for cards, Finch opted to sit outside of the mass of unknown boys and girls, just observing. Unfortunately, this time to himself only opened up the opportunity for his thoughts to run wild.

_I’m not that far from my old home. Are those people still living in that room? Is that man still living across the street? Does Spot still live in Prospect? Does Pidge still play with him? Does Pidge still work here? Does he still live here? Is he even still alive?_

An uproar from the newsies yanked Finch out of his thoughts.

“C’mon, Race, that’s not fair!”

“I call a redo!”

“How do you always win? You’s gotta be cheating somehow!”

Finch smiled a little and laughed to himself. Race always had a knack with card games and card tricks - Finch wondered how the Brooklyn newsies hadn’t figured that out yet. It wasn’t cheating, it was skill.

Okay, cheating was occasional.

“Hey Finchy - I mean, Finch!” Finch located Race, the one who called him. “Would ya take Les to relieve himself? I’m kinda in the middle of somethin’.”

Finch closed his eyes to resist them from rolling, but stood up anyway, saying, “Let’s go, then, Les.”

Finch didn’t mind babysitting when he was the one volunteering himself, and, yes, he figured that by not participating he would be made to do some task or another, but that didn’t mean he was eager to do so.

But taking Les to Anchor Tavern around the bend wouldn't be much of a hassle. Not much could happen in the span of a couple yards.

*****

Though Finch was confident that nothing could happen between the docks and Anchor, his hands were patting his legs to the rhythm of an unknown song.

“Why’re you so jittery?” asked Les.

“Hm? No - I’m not - why would you say that?”

“Because you can’t be still and you’re eyes are like a scared cat. Ain’t Brooklyn supposed to be full of toughies?”

“I had a bad experience when I was little. I guess it’s stuck with me. ‘Sides, I left Brooklyn, remember? I think Manhattan softened me up.” Finch laughed a little in attempt to lighten the conversation, but it helped neither him nor Les.

*****

Anchor Tavern was as loud and crowded as Finch remembered it being. When he and Pidge would sometimes wander down to the docks to cool off in the water, passing Anchor on their way was inescapable. Now, if anything, the tavern reeked even more, what with the increase of beer and the decrease of cleanliness. However, it held the closest toilets to the docks, and unless Les wanted to pee right there in the street, they would have to enter Anchor.

As soon as the two stepped into the tavern, Finch wanted to leave. The amount of customers to Anchor had certainly increased in the last eight years, much to Finch’s displeasure, such that there was hardly any room to maneuver around the ones seated.

Finch looked Les dead in the eye. “Don’t let go of my hand until we get to the toilet, do you understand?” Les nodded. “Les, _do you understand_?”

“Yes, _David_ , I understand.”

“Okay, because however fierce you think the Brooklyn newsies are, the adults are ten times that and -”

“Hey, you, boy!” a gruff voice shouted. Finch’s blood turned cold. “Ain’t I seen you before?”

“Les,” whispered Finch, because that was all he could do now. “You run out of here, right now, back to the docks.”

Les looked confused at the sudden change in Finch’s demeanor, searching for the source of the voice in the crowd. “What?”

“You leave _right now_.”

“But I -”

“ _Now, Les_!”

As Les sprinted out of the door to the right, Finch did the same to the left.

_It’s him, it’s the drunk man. How is he still here? How did he find me?_

Finch’s lungs burned and his feet ached and he could hear the footsteps and angry shouting of the man that haunted his mind for eight years getting closer and closer and closer. When Finch turned into an alley that dead-ended, he knew he was done for. He all but collapsed on the filthy floor. Finch kept his back to the man - a giant who had no sense of hygiene even if it was offered to him, white-skinned and white-haired, stains on his shirt and pants and a furious expression. Finch didn’t have to see him - the image of the man had been eternally imprinted in his mind.

“So it _is_ you. It’s been a few years, but you’s still showin’ up where you’s not supposed to.”

Finch told his body not to face the man, but it didn’t listen. Finch told his mouth not to talk to the man, but it didn’t listen.

“I was _nine_ ,” said Finch, his voice quivering. “I _lived across the street_. I just wanted to _play in the the snow_!”

“You should’a thought of that b’fore you stepped onto my property,” growled the man, nearing Finch. The boy and the man stood half a foot apart.

The man threw the first punch.

Finch staggered back, hands cupping the left side of his face, trying to ignore the pain, head spinning.

“Fight back, boy! All this time in Brooklyn and nothin’ to show for it?”

Finch was so disoriented that he didn’t notice the fist until he was knocked against the wall and crumpled on the ground, the right side of his face and the back of his head now in pain as well.

A kick to the gut.

A kick to the ribs.

The man was shouting - or was someone else? Maybe both? All Finch knew was that after the third kick, new pain stopped coming. He didn’t know how or why, but Finch was grateful.

“You alright there, kid?” asked the voice of a boy on the older side.

“‘M fine,” mumbled Finch, wiping at his eyes and sitting against the brick wall of the alleyway, trying his best to catch his breath and ignore that doused every inch of his body. There would certainly be evidence of this later.

“Finch?”

“Hm?” answered Finch almost instinctively, raising his eyes to the owner of the voice. The boy was short, tan, and had bleeding knuckles. The boy had disheveled black hair and a twinkle in his eye that seemed to have been dimmed.

Then it all clicked.

It was Pidge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *procrastinates uploading other fic by uploading this fic*
> 
> also i hate that drunk man i don't plan on writing him in again so that's nice


	3. Pigeon Makes an Entrance

It was Pidge it was Pidge it was Pidge _it was Pidge_.

He hadn’t grown in height much since Finch had left, but his arms were definitely bulkier and his face was tanner and had more definition and he had bags under his eyes (but, really, who didn’t) and his hair had grown out a little and there’s a fire in his dark eyes left over from his fight with the drunk man and he’s here he’s here he’s _here_.

_He’s not dead. Thank God he’s not dead._

Despite the current state of his face, Finch smiled. Despite the events that just took place, Finch laughed. Despite his growing fears over the years, Finch said, “Pidge.”

Pidge didn’t answer, just stood still as a statue.

He blinked once.

Twice.

The fire faded from his eyes.

“What are you doing here?”

Finch was a little taken aback. “I haven’t seen you in years, and one of the first things you say is ‘What are you doing here’? What do you mean, ‘what am I doing here’? What are _you_ doing here?.”

“I live here, Finchy. You’re the one with the bloody face in a city that you haven’t visited in eight years.”

_He counted too?_

“Race - Racetrack Higgins, you know him? He sells here, over at Sheepshead.”

“Um, yeah, I’ve heard of him.”

“Well he made me come and play cards with some of the other kids but I didn’t feel like it so I was just sitting out but then Les - cute kid, joined with his brother a couple months ago - he needed to… relieve himself so I took him to Anchor, ‘cept this one drunk guy knew me from before and got angry and started chasing me and… yeah that’s about all of it.”

Pidge sat down next to Finch, clenching and unclenching his bloodied fist. “Where’s Les now?”

Finch hadn’t thought of that. “I hadn’t thought of that. I was pretty preoccupied. Thanks, by the way.”

Pidge was looking at his feet. “No problem,” he said to his shoes.

The two sat there in an uncomfortable silence. What do you say to someone you haven’t seen in years who just saved your life? Finch started tapping on his knee.

He breathed in and out. “I should probably head back to the docks. The boys’ll be wonderin’ where I am,” he added, rising slowly to cause the least amount of pain. “Poor Les’ll probably be out of his mind.”

“Oh, sure, yeah,” Pidge muttered, rising as well. “Um, you’ll come back, though, right?”

Finch looked at Pidge’s face. His eyes were wide and his face was hopeful and Finch wondered what had happened since he had gone to Manhattan.

“Will I be allowed to? I don’t sell here like Race. Won’t Spot or someone be angry -”

“I swear he won’t,” Pidge interrupted - a little too quickly if Finch was being honest. “Just go to the Lodging House instead of the docks whenever Race comes.”

“I don’t know, Pidge…” It took all of Finch’s will not to bounce on his feet in nervousness.

“Finch!”

“Finch?”

“Finch where are you?”

Familiar-sounding shouts traveled from outside the alleyway causing both boys to turn that direction.

“That’ll be them,” Finch said, half-disappointed. A shuffle of feet behind him caused Finch to turn around. Pidge had gone.

That in itself was odd because the alley was a dead end and the only other adorning the brick walls were fire escapes, but those, too, were empty.

“Pidge?” Finch whispered.

“Finch!” Finch whipped around yet again - which was less than ideal for his body - to find little Les Jacobs standing at the entrance to the alley. “Guys, I found him!”

Les ran up to Finch, tackling him in a hug that almost knocked both of them over.

“Careful, Les.”

Les looked up at Finch, finally seeing the bruises and blood. “Finch, what happened to your face?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, Les, honest.”

“Did that man do that to you?”

“Finch!”

Before Finch could see who called him he was enveloped by so many bodies that he couldn’t see - or breathe.

“Fellas -” Finch said, “can’t - _breathe_.”

“Alright,” he heard the voice of Race say, “get off of him, get off of him.”

All at once the pressure sandwiching him was gone and he was surrounded by Les, Race, Henry, and Jojo.

“God, Finch, what happened?” asked Jojo once he looked at Finch proper.

“Nothin’ I couldn’t handle,” said Finch, waving them off. Jojo gave him a quizzical look. “Honest, Jo.”

“We should be gettin’ back,” said Race, changing the subject. “Someone might get the feelin’ we’s overstayed our welcome.”

*****

“Hey, Race?” Finch asked as the boys made their way down the Brooklyn Bridge. Jojo and Henry were ahead of Finch and Race, Les piggybacking Henry.

“Hm?” the boy answered, intently focussed on balancing on the line that divided the lanes a few feet away.

“You know a lot of the Brooklyn newsies?”

“Uh, I guess.”

“You know one named Pidge?”

Race squinted at the line in thought, arms still out wide in a T. “...Can’t say that I do, Finchy - Finch.” He looked at Finch, said “Sorry,” and turned back to his balancing act.

“But…” Finch’s brows furrowing and the fingers of his right hand tracing the knuckles of his left.

“What, did you see him or somethin’? Is he new?”

“Well, that’s just the thing - he’s been selling there for ages. I just figured you’d at least heard of him. He’s heard of you.”

Race gave up his tightrope act, arms thrown down to his sides. “I could ask Spot tomorrow, if you want. Who’s this guy anyways?”

“Just… someone I knew from my Brooklyn days. I wanted to know how he was doing since I left.”

“I’ll ask for ya, Finch, no problem. You said his name was Pidge?”

“Yeah. And… thanks, Racer.”

*****

Finch laid awake that night, thoughts rushing through his mind, trying to piece everything together. But no matter how hard he tried, the puzzle never came out right. There were too many pieces missing or in the wrong places.

He tried to focus on the light snores of Elmer above him, tried counting the planks of wood that made the frame of the top bunk, tried counting to the highest number he knew - anything that would take his mind off of the hours previous. He counted his bruises without looking at them, named the newsies in order of bunks without opening his eyes, imagined tying his shoes like Race did -

Race.

How did Racetrack Higgins, in all his years of selling across the Bridge, never once encounter a newsie who Finch was now certain was alive and well? How had they not _once_ crossed paths, uttered a hello, played each other in cards?

Finch would have to go to Brooklyn again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i call pidge and finch the birdy boys and wow can you believe i would do anything for them
> 
>  
> 
> also my tumblr is namesfey as well in case you want to talk or scream or whatever at me


	4. Bottle Alley Blues

Finch made sure to remind Race to ask about Pidge as they left the distribution gates the next morning. When Race assured him he would, the two parted, though Finch didn’t feel too assured.

The entire morning Finch’s mind was only half-focussed on selling. The other half got lost in thought, causing Finch to stare off into some indiscernible direction, fingers mindlessly picking at the strap of his bag. By the time he finished selling, Finch couldn’t remember one headline he had hawked, though they must have been good ones since he ran out of papes before noon. Or maybe it was the bruises left over from yesterday’s debacle.

_It’s too early for anyone to be back at the House - or Jacobi’s._

Finch turned into the nearest alley, taking off his cap. _Why_ could he not focus? Well, he knew why, he just didn’t know _em_. Finch looked around, spotting a cluster of empty bottles. That was certainly something that distract him from what was already distracting him. Finch felt in his pocket (the one that clacked more than clinked) for a pebble that was just the right size. He took his slingshot out of where it rested in his waistband, placing said pebble in the rubber straps. He closed his right eye and stuck his tongue out, stretching the straps back and taking aim. He breathed in and out, in and out, and then released the straps, the stone along with them.

_Crash!_

_Bullseye._ Finch smiled, marveling at his work. _Nice work, genius, that took two minutes. What’re you gonna do for another hour?_

“Hello?”

Finch turned to the voice at the entrance to the alley (he seemed to be doing a lot of that lately), his sling already firing a stone.

“Ow!” said the voice, the body belonging to it stumbling back. “Gah, Finch, it’s just me.”

Just Me, as Finch strode to the source, turned out to be Romeo - who was holding his arm.

“Did you have to shoot it that hard? Or, ya know, _at all_?”

Finch just shrugged, patting Romeo’s back. “Can’t blame instinct, Ro.”

“What were you doing down here, anyway? - and, by the way, you’re face is lookin better.”

“That’s good to hear, still hurts, though. And... nothin’ really, just tryin’ to pass the time. What’re you doing, snooping around in alleyways?”

“I’m just trying to sell the rest of my papes, to be frank. I don’t see any buyers down here, though, so….” Romeo raised his eyebrows at Finch, asking a silent question: _Why ain’t_ you _sellin’, Finch?_

Finch gestured to his bag. “Sold all my papes.”

Romeo let out a low whistle. “Already? _Shoot_ , Finch, how?”

“I...I don’t really know, to tell ya the truth.”

“You wanna help me?”

“Will ya pay me?”

“Sure - I won’t shoot you with a rock.”

*****

“Extra! Extra! Thousands riot in Brooklyn!”

The wind had picked up, the sign of autumn soon approaching. Finch had to keep one hand on his head to keep his hat on while his other hand held Romeo’s paper as tight as he could. People were passing to and fro, not minding the two boys. Still, Romeo and Finch had managed to sell all but four.

“What were they rioting over?” Romeo asked, stopping his hawking in favor or searching the pages.

“What?” said Finch, attention torn away from the passersby. “No - did you start sellin’ yesterday, Ro?” Finch bumped his shoulder against Romeo’s lightly.

“Well, ya never know if the actual headline’s as good as the fake one, you get me?”

“Yeah, okay,” Finch said. A man approached and bought a paper from Finch, who handed Romeo the man’s money. “Thanks, mister - hey, Romeo, hand me another one, would ya?”

Romeo did so, but in the split second transition between Romeo’s hand and Finch’s, a gust of wind blew down the street, ripping the paper from Romeo’s hands. The boys tried to catch it, but the wind pushed the paper along its invisible path away from them.

“Don’t worry, Ro, I’ll get it!” Finch called, already running to catch up. This proved to be difficult. It was the middle of the day, and the streets were crowded with buyers and sellers and strollers, and Finch had to dodge them all while looking up in the air.

When the wind lost it’s push and the paper at last began to fall, Finch was far away from the area around Bottle Alley where he began. Though, as Finch grabbed the paper from the ground where it landed, he couldn’t help but feel that the street felt somewhat familiar.

It wasn’t so much that the street _looked_ familiar so much as there was this deep, almost instinctual feeling that one only possesses and feels when they had lived somewhere for a long time, the same feeling that Finch felt as he walked home to the Lodging House every day.

Finch rolled the paper up, though the paper and the reason he had chased it were pushed to the recesses of his mind. Why did this street seem familiar? Why did he recognize the nearest lamppost, and know it wasn’t lit half the time? Why did he know the pavement across the street was never redone after a tree that crumbled it was uprooted? _Why_ -

“Patrick?”

Finch’s blood turned to ice.

_No no no no no no no_

“Patrick, is that you?”

It took all of Finch’s willpower to make his heart start pumping, to remember how to breathe, to acknowledge the middle-aged woman who stood before him.

“No, I’m sorry ma’am. I don’t know anyone by that name.” He was lying. Lying through his teeth. He knew she knew he was lying.

She was his mother after all.

“Are you sure?” she asked, taking a few steps forward, while Finch stood stock-still. “He sells papers, too. He goes by - oh, what was it? - it was some type of bird, he and his friend had made their names up a long time ago. But, he ran away a few years back, and I haven’t seen him since. And, oh, he looks so like you.”

She was inches away from him now, one hand outstretched as though she wanted to touch him, but knew she couldn’t.

“S-sorry, ma’am, I don’t know who you’re talkin’ about.”

Mobility had finally spread through his body, and Finch took off, not daring to look back.

*****

Finch, breathing heavily, found Romeo where he had left him. Romeo had sold the remaining two, opting to stay where he was so Finch could find him when he retrieved the flying paper.

“Whoa there, Finch, what happened? You look like you were being chased by a madman.”

_Your comment is a day late._

“It doesn’t matter, Ro - but, hey, I got your pape. You sell it - I’m sitting down.”

*****

“Okay, somethin’s the matter, Finch,” Romeo said as the two were walking back to the distribution gates to drop off their bags. “What’s eatin’ you - did somethin’ happen while you were chasin’ that pape?”

Finch didn’t answer, just looked down at his hands as he twiddled his fingers. “It’s… it’s a lot of stuff building up on top of each other, Ro.”

“Anythin’ I can do to help?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think _anythin’_ can help. That makes it sound more serious than it is. Though, I guess, in comparison, it may be. I dunno.”

“Alrighty, Finch. Just know every one of us is here for ya.”

*****

As soon as Finch arrived back at the House his patience wore thin. In order to forget the ordeal from earlier in the day, Finch decided to devote his entire concentration on when Race was coming home, if he had talked to Pidge, what Pidge had said. Finch had paced the floor, then sat down, but got back up to pace again when he realized he was bobbing his leg to vigorously. Every time the he heard the door open, he would rush to the entryway, but was disappointed to find that none of the people entering were Race.

And, for some reason, he kept checking his pockets for the time (like _he_ had enough money to afford a pocket watch).

The sun was setting when Finch heard the door opening again. He ran to the door, and was elated to find the one-and-only Racetrack Higgins striding through.

“Race!”

Race jumped, not expecting such an outburst. He let out a huge breath. “Hey Finch, what’s new?”

“Did you talk to Pidge?”

Race’s entire demeanor became sheepish, as though Race was holding something back that he didn’t want to share. “I… I don’t want you to get mad at me - I did ask around, honest. But, Finch, no one knows who this ‘Pidge’ guy is. I asked Tapper, I asked York, I asked Spot, I asked _everyone_ \- even the kids I don’t know.”

“But,” Finch began, trying and failing to hide his disbelief and desperation, “I just saw him yesterday. I talked to him _yesterday_. He said he’d talk to Spot Conlon about me comin’ next Wednesday with you. If he’s talkin’ to Spot Conlon, he can’t be a ghost, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“So why is it he’s soundin’ like one more and more?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor finchy cant catch a break
> 
>  
> 
> waddup im jared im 19 and i never learned how to post on a regular basis


	5. A Word Among Birds

When Wednesday arrived, Finch couldn’t sit still. All morning his only thoughts were of the afternoon, when Race would take him (presumably amidst other Manhattan newsies) to Brooklyn.

At 2:47 p.m. one would find Finch sitting on his bunk, staring at a spot on the floor, his left leg bouncing up and down uncontrollably. His attention only shifted when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

Finch heard Race say, “Hey, Finch,” but Finch was already on his feet, out the door, and down the stairs to the front door, anxiety and adrenaline coursing through his veins.

“Slow down, Finch!” Race called as he himself made his way downstairs, Specs in tow. “At least wait for us before you go speedin’ off.”

“Sorry,” Finch said, restraining his want to pace back and forth. “Is it just us three?”

“We’re meetin’ Rosie at the bridge, but yeah,” Race answered.

“Okay, then, let’s go,” Finch said, opening the door and strolling out into the afternoon air.

“And to think, he wouldn’t step foot in Brooklyn until a week ago,” Race muttered to Specs.

*****

Rosie was indeed waiting for them at the Manhattan side of the Brooklyn Bridge, the boys waving back when she waved at them.

“Heya, Rosie,” Specs said as the group began their trek across the bridge. “You’re sure ya ma said you could come?”

“Positive,” Rosie answered.

“Good, I don’t want Mrs. Corcoran yellin’ at us like last time.”

*****

It was no surprise for the four to find Tapper waiting on the other side.

“There’s not as many as last week, but I don’t reckon it would matter either way,” Tapper said, letting them through, but stopped Finch before he could pass. “Finch, right?”

“Yeah…” Finch said, trying to holding is hands together to stop their fidgeting.

“Spot told me you were good to go to the Lodging House. You need help gettin’ there?”

“No, I’m fine, I know where it is.”

“Suit yourself,” Tapper said, starting toward the docks.

_Ask him ask him ask him!_

“Wait!” Finch called. “I have a question.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“There’s a newsie that started sellin’ here a long time ago named Pidge. I was wonderin’ if you knew him - or at least heard of him.”

“Can’t say that I do, same as I told Race last week. When he’d start sellin’?”

“Ninety.”

Tapper stood there, foot tapping, fingers tapping his chin. “Sorry, kid, I don’t remember anyone like that. That bein’ said, I didn’t start until Ninety-Two, but I thought I might’a remembered still.”

“That’s - that’s fine. Just wonderin’,” Finch said, trying to hide his confusion.

He figured he’d find more answers at the House.

*****

A kid with an eyepatch and tufts of blond hair named York answered the door. He didn’t know Pidge either.

“Are you the reason Racetrack was goin’ around askin’ people too?” York asked, letting Finch inside.

“Um, yeah.” It wasn’t that Finch didn’t trust Race, it was just that needed to be sure. There had to be _someone_ who knew Pidge.

“Well, anyway, Spot told me to tell you to go upstairs and into the first door on the left.”

“Thanks.”

The stairs creaked as Finch traveled upstairs - as if this trip wasn’t haunting already.

*****

The room was empty.

Not only void of people, but of objects inside, save for a bed and a window that let out to a fire escape.

Finch closed the door behind him and sat on the empty bed, looking around the room, as if something interesting might appear, trying to take his mind off of - well, anything.

Finch was jerked from his not-thinking when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs - more than one, he reckoned.

_Why did I close the door?_

_What if it’s Spot Conlon? What if I wasn’t allowed in here after all? What if -_

The door opened and a child walked in.

Finch yelped - not because the child scared him (although the kid was unexpected) but because the kid _didn’t_ scare him, and he needed to let the bottled up energy out.

“Quit screamin’!” the kid screamed.

“Sorry,” Finch said.

“Ducky, get out of there,” a familiar voice said. Pidge popped up behind the kid, pushing him outside of the doorway. “Remember what I told you?”

“‘Go find the other kids’?”

“Go find the other kids,” Pidge responded, closing the door. He faced Finch. “Sorry about that, he likes to follow me everywhere.”

“No, it’s fine,” Finch said, though nothing about this afternoon had felt fine.

Pidge sat against the wall opposite Finch. “So, what’s new?”

“I’m just gonna cut to the chase,” Finch said. “I’ve asked everyone if they knew who you were, and no one has answered yes. What’s the deal?”

“Um, well - hold on - Ducky! Get away from the door and go play with Keys!”

Finch heard an annoyed, “Uuuuuggghhhh,” from the other side of the door and dramatic stomping down the stairs.

“Is he always that snoopy?” Finch asked.

“Yeah, I gotta teach him the concept of privacy one of these days or he’ll have more trouble sellin’ when he gets older. Speakin’ of which, how’s Manhattan been?”

“The streets aren’t as tough, that’s for sure - not to say that there aren’t a fair amount of soakin’s now and again, but I don’t feel like I gotta look over my shoulder like I did when I sold here.”

“I get that. How’s Frannie?”

“About that…” Finch trailed off. “I kinda… I kinda ran away a month or so after we moved.”

“You _what_?” Pidge exclaimed. “Finchy… why in the world would you do that?”

“‘Cause she was spendin’ the money I made - mind you she didn’t make any herself, nor did she try - on stupid stuff and I couldn’t do it anymore.”

“Is she not lookin’ for you?”

“She is - I found that out last week when I accidently ran into her.”

“What happened?”

“I convinced her it wasn’t me, but I think she thought I still _was_ me, if you catch my drift. But that was the first time I’d seen her since I ran away, and boy, was I terrified out of my mind. I froze where I stood.”

“You have the tendency to freeze in terrifying situations, you know.”

“I know, but it’s not like I can help it.”

*****

“How’s Spot?” Finch asked.

“What do you mean?” Pidge asked, suddenly speculative.

“The dog, not the person. Could you imagine if that dog was the leader of Brooklyn?”

“Ha ha, yeah... that would be crazy. But, uh, I… I don’t know how she's been lately, to tell ya the truth. I haven’t been to Prospect in forever. She was fine the last time I saw her, at least.”

“So he could have _died_ and neither of us would have known? Come on, Pidge, that was one of the few things I asked you to do.”

“Things change, Finch.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

“Please don’t get upset about the dog, Finchy. Say, we can go to Prospect next week to see if she’s still kickin’.”

“He.”

Pidge smiled. “Whatever.”

*****

The two talked until the sun was nearly hidden behind the buildings.

“I better go meet everyone down at the docks. They might leave me otherwise,” Finch said, laughing a bit.

“I’ll see ya next week, yeah?”

“Prospect - I’m holdin’ you to that.”

Finch opened the door and walked out, feeling like he could breathe a little better. He found Ducky at the bottom of the stairs playing with a wooden horse on wheels.

“You can go see him now, Ducky, I’m done.”

“ _Finally_ ,” Ducky said, throwing his hands in the air. “You’s been up there for ages! What were you even talkin’ about? A business thing?”

“No, just talkin’ as friends.”

“Oh,” Ducky said, brows furrowed together like he couldn’t comprehend the situation. “Well, bye.”

“Bye, Ducky.”

*****

Finch found Race, Specs, and Rosie at the Brooklyn side of the bridge.

“We were about to leave,” Rosie said. “Ma would’a whooped your butts if we had left any later.”

“Sorry, Rosie,” Finch said as the made their way across.

“Where even were you?” Specs asked.

“I was talkin’ to Pidge.”

“Who?”

“It’s this guy that apparently only Finchy - Finch, sorry - can see,” Race said.

“You sure you’s right in the head?” Rosie asked, knocking on Finch’s forehead.

“Shut up, you all. He’s real, and…”

“And?” Race asked.

“I just realized I didn’t find out why no one knew who he was.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall i literally was going to upload this last sunday but my power was out for like 8 hours and then school came so here i am uploading right now
> 
> in other news shoutout to rosie corcoran who was a real newsie and whose mother had a newspaper stand
> 
> also i didn't realize this until after i wrote it but ducky is also a bird nickname kms but i love that dramatic child so whatever


	6. Spotted Vision

“So where are we off to today?”

“Prospect Park. I promised ya last week we’d go check up on Spot, yeah?”

The following Wednesday had both arrived too quickly and didn’t arrive quick enough. All Finch could think about was the Wednesday to come. He promised himself he’d get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding Pidge - he just needed to find the right time to ask.

At the current moment Finch and Pidge were strolling down the pavement towards Prospect, the sun slowly sliding down the western sky. The light breeze caused some of the browning leaves from trees that lined the walkway to flutter down like dry rain. The days were growing colder, and the nights even more so. Finch was glad he decided to wear long sleeves today.

The boys walked in silence, save for the sound of a rock that the boys were kicking when it collided with the ground.

_Now would be a good time to ask._

“Say, Pidge -”

“And there she is!” Pidge announced, arms open wide in display. Indeed right in front of them sat Prospect Park, looking very much the same as when Finch saw it last.

Pidge smiled, his face turning years younger, and grabbed Finch’s wrist, pulling him along. “Let’s go!”

Finch had no choice but to do just that.

*****

Trees still had low-hanging branches. Pathways were still large enough to race down. And for some reason there were still statues of naked ladies.

But no Spot.

“Maybe she…” Finch began, but didn’t know how to finish. All he knew was that he couldn’t say what seemed to be the only possibility.

“Gee, Finchy, I’m sorry,” Pidge said, dark eyes filled with pity. “It’s my fault - I didn’t look after -”

“BOOF.”

Both boys looked down the path ahead of them. There stood a spotted dog.

“Spot!” Finch shouted. He patted his legs, “Come here, boy!”

The dog lumbered along toward Finch and Pidge, graying hair becoming more apparent as it neared.

“Hey, Spotty,” Finch said, crouching down to rub Spot’s head. Finch looked to Pidge, still standing. “Ain’t you gonna say hi?”

Pidge sighed before sitting on the dirt path. “Hey there, Spot.”

*****

“I always missed this park,” Finch said. He, Pidge, and Spot were on their fourth go-around on the path.

“Don’t you have a park in Manhattan?” Pidge asked, throwing a stick for Spot to fetch.

“Yeah, but it’s not the same.”

“How so?”

“Well, for starters, my two best friends are here.”

“There’s only me, though.”

“You think I can’t be best friends with a dog?”

Pidge smiled. “Whatever you say.”

*****

“You ever see your ma ‘round here?” Finch asked. This was during their sixth go-around.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause she died three weeks after you left.”

*****

After the seventh go-around the boys and the dog sat under a tree in favor of people-watching and rubbing the belly of the dog.

“She’s gettin’ old,” Pidge remarked.

“I’m surprised he’s made it this long, if I’m bein’ honest.”

“How long are we gonna keep arguin’ about the gender of this dog?”

“Until you admit that I’m right.”

“So forever, then.”

“I guess so.”

“How do you -”

“Finch!” a voice called from far away. Finch stopped rubbing Spot’s belly to find who the voice belonged to. There, across the pond, were a few of the other Manhattan newsies that had come that afternoon. Finch waved back.

“Gottagobye,” Pidge said.

“Wait, what?” Finch asked - but when he turned to his friend, Pidge was gone. “Well I guess it’s just me and you, Spot.”

“BOOF.”

*****

“And who’s this?” Specs asked, scratching behind the dog’s ears.

“This is Spot,” Finch said.

“What, like Spot Conlon?” Henry said.

“No, stupid. Me and Pidge named him years ago, before Spot Conlon even existed.”

“Aw, Finch not this again,” said Racetrack, walking up to the three.

“Who’s Pidge?” Henry asked.

“He’s this kid that Finch swears is real,” Specs said. “But no one knows who he is and Finch comes every week just to see him.”

“You alright in there, Finch?” Henry asked, knock-knocking on Finch’s forehead.

“Yes, I’m _fine_ ,” Finch said, shoving Henry off.

“Let’s get goin’,” Race said, pulling Finch to a standing position, “before we have to start callin’ you Cuckoo instead.”

*****

That evening one could find Finch leaning against his shared bunk watching Rosie teach little May how to tie a bow on her dress, Buck commenting next to her.

“It’s like lacing up your boots,” Rosie said.

“She wasn’t there when Finch and Race were teachin’ us,” Buck said. “Right, May?”

May shook her head. She was never the biggest talker.

“That’s fine,” Rosie said. “Alright, May, it’s easy. So you take one lace and make a loop -”

“No, no, no, Rosie!” Buck interjected. “Race’s way is faster than Finch’s. Listen, May, it’s like this….” Finch stopped listening. Yes, he kept looking at them, arms crossed, taking in whatever was in front of him, but his mind had tuned them out, his head buzzing.

_That was the day I met Pidge again._

_‘But no one knows who he is and Finch comes every week just to see him.’_

_'Let’s get goin’ before we have to start callin’ you Cuckoo instead.'_

“DAMN IT!”

The room quieted. Rosie, May, and Buck froze, all in the middle of tying May’s ribbons, appalled at what had just occurred: Finch’s exclamation followed by him furiously kicking the bedframe of the opposite bunk and throwing his cap across the room.

“Finch?” Buck asked softly. “Are you okay?”

Finch sat on his bed, head in his hands. “No, Buckaroo,” he breathed. “I’m not okay.”

“Can we do anything to help? Do you want a hug?”

Buck didn’t wait for an answer. Though Finch didn’t see, he could feel the kid’s small arms wrapping around his torso.

“I’m sorry for callin’ your shoe tyin’ too slow. I didn’t mean it.”

Finch couldn’t help but laugh, though he wouldn’t take his hands off his face. “Thanks, Buck, but it’s not about that.”

“What’s it about?”

Finch finally uncovered his face, looking into the green eyes of the little newsie. “My best friend apparently doesn’t exist.”

"But I'm right here," Buck said, gesturing to himself.

"Aw, I know, Buckaroo," FInch said, ruffling the boy's red hair. "I'm talkin' about another one of my best friends."

“So you’s mad ‘cause you got a ‘maginary friend?”

“No, Buck, it’s because everyone thinks he’s imaginary but I know he’s real.”

“Well, what does he look like?”

“He’s kinda short, has messy, dark hair, dark eyes that get scary when he’s angry. Real tough lookin’.”

“He sounds like Spot Conlon,” Rosie said.

“He’s not, though.”

“You said you’ve never seen Spot Conlon before.”

Finch turned around. Behind him on a bunk a few rows back sat Les. Finch didn’t even know he was there. “What do ya mean, Les?”

“Well,” said Les, “I don’t wanna insimate -”

“You mean ‘insinuate’?”

“Sure. That. I don’t wanna do that, but you said you’ve never seen Spot Conlon before, so how do you know it’s not him?”

“Because his name is Pidge, not Spot,” Finch answered. “Plus, Spot Conlon didn’t get to Brooklyn till after I met Pidge, till after I left Brooklyn. Why would he change his name? And why would he change it to Spo -”

Silence.

“Finch?” Buck asked.

Finch sprinted out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aw, yes, the old yikes and yeet
> 
> also i pictured Spot The Dog as one of those chimera labrador dogs but honestly Spot The Dog can be whatever breed with spots you want


	7. Yikes

The streets were dark, but Finch wasn’t concerned - he could find his way blindfolded if need be. One foot after the other the boy raced down the streets of Manhattan, the only sounds filling his ears being the scuffing of his feet and his rapid breathing. He didn’t hesitate to cross the Brooklyn Bridge - he would have been surprised at himself because of it had he not had a more pressing matter at hand. Hell, he would have raced right into the Brooklyn Lodging House had someone not grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back into a hold that pinned his arms to his side before he could even step inside the door.

“Let go of me!” Finch cried. Whoever he was yelling at, it didn’t matter. “I need to get inside!”

“No, you need to stop and think.” It was Race who said it, Race who was holding him back.

“I know what I know,” Finch said, still struggling against Race. “And he’s Spot!”

“Finch calm down, you’re not making any sense! And you’re going to wake someone up if you don’t shut your trap!”

“I’m the only one _with_ any sense, Racetrack!” Finch said, finally managing to push out of Race’s grasp, turning to face the boy whose face showed disbelief. Finch couldn’t take it anymore - he let out a sob. Then another. The more he tried to rein himself back in, the more the cries came, and the tears fell. “He’s Pidge. O-or, he’s Spot. Ugh!”

Race shifted his weight, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, not knowing what to do, not knowing how to answer. “Finch… I don’t know what to say. I’ve - I’ve known Spot for _years_. How could I not know about this?”

“Now you know how I’ve been feeling for _weeks_ ,” said Finch, wiping his eyes, sniffing, composing himself. “And because I don’t know for certain, you need to _let. Me. Go. In. Side_.

“Finch, I _swear_ that Spot and Pidge aren’t the same.”

“You weren’t there, Race!” Finch yelled. “You weren’t up in the bunks while my whole world came crashing down. You weren’t there when I met Pidge nine years ago, you weren’t there when I left _eight_ years ago, and you weren’t there when he saved me from a drunk man three weeks ago! How, _how_ could you know what I know. You’re just the - oh, what did Davey call it? - the catalyst! You’re just the one that started this mess. I’m not blaming you for what happened when you brought me over here, but I will _not_ let you assume you know everything!”

“What’s going on out here?”

It was a sleepy York poking his head out of the doorway.

“York,” said Finch, rushing to the boy, “I need you to let me inside. I need to talk to Spot.”

“You were here a couple hours ago to do that,” York replied, closing the door. “Go home. Some of us are trying to sleep. Just wait till next week to visit like everybody else.”

Finch stopped the door, his hands shaking. “That’s the thing though, York. I never came here to talk to Spot, I came here to talk to Pidge.”

“Oh my - listen, Finch, there’s no one named Pidge here.” York pointed to Race. “He wasn’t here when Racetrack asked,” he pointed to Finch, “he wasn’t here when you asked,” he pointed to the ground, “and he isn’t here now.”

“Just listen, York. You too, Race. Pidge is short - shorter than any of us - with black hair, tan skin, and dark eyes. Who does that sound like?”

“Could be a number of kids here,” York responded, trying again to close the door.

“He has a little follow him around named Ducky,” Finch added, pushing against said door.

York froze, giving Finch just enough time to fully shove the door inwards and sprint up the stairs.

“Finch!” Race called, following him up. “Stop!”

But Finch didn’t stop. He didn’t stop at the top of the stairs, he didn’t stop in the hall, he didn’t stop at the doorway. No, sir, he barged right through the door without pomp or warning, startling the boy Finch knew as Pidge who was poring over a newspaper.

“Finchy? What are you doing here?”

“Finch!” Race said, out of breath, stopping by Finch’s side. “You can’t just barge in on people -”

“Race?” Pidge said, slowly backing towards the far wall, worry wobbling his voice.

“What?” The boy stood from his hands-on-knees position. “Oh - Spot? Finch, what are doing here? Why are we in - I thought you were trying to find Pidge or whoever.”

“I was,” Finch said, cold and empty, staring at the boy against the wall. “I did.”

“But he’s Spot. Spot Conlon, King of Brooklyn, ring any bells?”

“And who was he before that, do you know?”

“I… I don’t know. I didn’t need to know. I never met him before that. That - that question doesn’t even make _sense_ ”

“You both can stop talking like I’m not here,” the boy finally spoke, “and get the hell out.”

“Wait - what’s going _on_ here?” Race asked. Finch couldn’t move.

“Shut _up_ , Racetrack,” the boy said. Demanded.

“Spot, tell me you have no idea what Finch is talking about,” Race said, trying to laugh to ease the tension. But the boy just stared at Race, expression not giving Race a clear answer. “So you lied to me,” Race accused.

“You never thought otherwise,” the boy responded.

“Yeah, because I didn’t think I had to! Who else knows about Pidge?”

“No one, and I’d like to keep it that way!

“Why?”

“Because it doesn’t matter!”

“It matters to me!” Finch shouted, finding the will to speak again. “It matters because you lied to me, no question about that.”

Race scoffed. “I can’t believe this.” We walked out the door, saying “We’re talking about this tomorrow, Spot, believe you me.”

Race’s footsteps echoed through the Lodging House.

Finch waited until he heard the slam of the door. “So what am I supposed to do know, huh? What am I even supposed to _call_ you? I can’t call you Pidge because that’s not who you are to everyone, but I can’t call you Spot because that’s not who you are to _me_.”

The boy mumbled something, swinging his left foot back-and-forth a bit.

“Speak up.”

“I said ‘I’m sorry’, alright?” the boy half-shouted. “I’m sorry that I deceived you, I’m sorry that I didn’t come clean. Once I realized you didn’t know me as Spot, I thought we could just go back to how things were before. I’m always so busy with the papes and the boys that I forget to be a kid sometimes, and hanging around with you made me forget what I had become.”

Finch laughed bitterly, staring at the ceiling. “I can’t believe you. You expect me to just accept that answer and be okay?”

“Finchy -”

Finch snapped his head back to the boy. “No, _you_ don’t get to call me that. Spot Conlon doesn’t call some background newsie by a nickname, that’s not how this works.”

“Background? Fi -”

“Just shut up, Sean!”

“I can’t -”

“Well you’re gonna have to, because I’m leaving. And this time I’m really not coming back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i...............................hate this chapter thanks


	8. Silent Night

All children in Brooklyn knew the same two rules:

Don’t go into the streets alone  
Don’t go into the streets at night

Patrick was breaking both. But he didn’t care. He wasn’t in Brooklyn.

No, he was sitting on the steps of the Manhattan Lodging House as snow fell quietly around him, lights from inside the surrounding buildings casting shadows this way and that.

It was ten o’clock on a winter night, and Patrick was silent, staring at the tracks in the snow made from passersby, ignoring his reddened fingers from lack of gloves, his wetted feet from lack of proper footwear, his frozen body from lack of heat though he wore a coat. But he didn’t move, didn’t speak.

It was ten-thirty on a winter night, and Patrick was still sitting on those steps, only his breathing heard. Across the street and three doors down from the Lodging House a light turned off. He wondered how long it would take the newsies to calm down tonight, how long it would take for their own lights to dim.

It was ten-thirty-five on a winter night when a figure in a large brown coat hiding something inside it appeared in Patrick’s peripheral. Patrick paid no mind, assuming the person would pass by without any interruption. He was surprised when the figure called his name but, knowing who the voice belonged to, ignored it. Instead he stood, brushing the snow from his pants and turned to walk back inside the House. 

The figure tried their best to form coherent words. “I - I’m sorry, uh - um - I -”

“Go away, Sean,” Patrick replied, voice calm - tired, one might say, one hand prepared to turn the House’s doorknob while his other hand scratched his thigh. He wished he could spit the response out instead. He wished he could scream. But it was like the temperature froze his body as well as the snow on the ground. All Patrick could do was stare through the window at the light and laughter inside.

Patrick sighed. “Why are you here?”

“You said you’d never come back to Brooklyn, so I decided I would come to you.”

“It’s been weeks.”

“Maybe I needed weeks to muster up the courage.”

Patrick didn’t think - he just laughed. Laughed at the boy, laughed at the sky, laughed at the situation he had gotten himself into. He turned, facing the boy he had simultaneously known and never known. The glint from the streetlights on the snow that was once beautiful only reminded Patrick of the eyes of the boy that once sparkled with stars.

All children in Brooklyn knew the same two rules, but Patrick was tired of them.

*****

Patrick assumed his spot on the steps, patting the area next to him.

“Oh,” said Sean, “I should show you what I brought first.” Sean opened his coat to reveal a speckled dog, small enough to fit on his forearm. “It’s Spot’s,” Sean said. “The dog, of course. That would just be weird.” Sean gave a little chuckle. Patrick couldn’t find the energy to feign laughter. He felt cold and empty.

“The dog’s for you,” Sean continued, placing the puppy on the ground. “I went to Prospect every day since you left, looking after Spot. She um…” Sean looked at his shoes. “She died a couple days ago, but she left behind some pups. I thought it wouldn’t hurt if… y’know….”

Patrick watched as the dog flounced around, its feet barely long enough for its body to rise above the snow. He felt Sean sit next to him.

“It was snowing when I first met you,” Sean said.

_How could I forget?_

“I love the sparkly kind of snow,” Patrick said, tapping his fingers on his knees.

“I prefer the big fluffy kind,” Sean replied. “But we’re all entitled to our opinions.”

“I like how it makes silence.”

*****

The two sat for an indeterminable amount of time just watching the small dog skip amidst the falling snow.

“Did I ever tell you about the night you found me?” Patrick said. He whispered it, but the silence made his voice sound like a shout. He started wringing his hands.

“No, you never brought it up,” Sean answered. “I always wondered, but I thought it would’ve been better for you to tell me on your own time.”

“I was out playing when I wasn’t supposed to. Y’know, out by myself in the dead of night. Mama didn’t know. There was a man across the street who caught me. He was drunk, I could smell it on him. He yelled at me, called me a miscreant, told me to scram. My mind wasn’t thinking, so I ran as far away as I could until my body gave up and I fell to the ground. I stayed there until you found me. I probably would’ve died if you hadn’t.”

“Let’s not be dramatic now, Finchy - I mean -”

“It’s fine, Sean. But, really, I don’t think I would’ve found my way home that night.”

“Well, I’ll say that for once I was glad my ma kicked me out.”

“I was so afraid of you, you know - of Spot Conlon? Just like everybody else was. During The Strike, Jack asked if anyone wanted to go to Brooklyn and I ducked my head like a scared little kid. I didn’t want to confront The Famous Spot Conlon. I didn’t know who you were and I was afraid of facing you.”

“That’s not your fault. That’s on me.”

“Why’d you do it?” Patrick asked, finally looking at Sean. Patrick could spot tear tracks down the other boy’s face.

“All the older boys were leavin’. Dandy, Jest - all of them. They were all growin’ up, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that soon I’d be one of the ones to replace ‘em. I couldn’t move up in the ranks with a name like ‘Pigeon’, y’know? As much as I appreciate the sentiment behind it, I figured there needed to be an intimidation factor. And with a name like Spot, and with a little attitude shift - _boom_. Suddenly I was this big deal, and soon the pretend became real, and I couldn’t stop.”

“I still can’t believe you named yourself after a dog.”

“I never said I was smart.”

*****

At one point the dog became tired and pranced - as well as it could manage - over to the boys, finally laying down at Patrick’s feet.

“I think he likes you,” Sean said.

“She.”

“What?”

“It’s a she.”

“How do you know?”

Patrick smiled. “All pretty dogs are girls.”

Sean managed a mirroring smile. “You figure out a name for her yet?”

Patrick scooped up the dog into his arms, petting her between the ears. “Hattie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wowee my first finished fic! thanks to everyone who read it, who gave kudos, and to the people who commented! yall always made my day!

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are always appreciated! :)


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